eat it up over that ridge ahead," Rathburn ordered. "And be
quick about it. That posse may be close behind us."

The other's eyes lit up with surprise. "You--you're not an officer?"
he stammered.

"Shut up, you fool!" cried Rathburn. "You want to stay here an' talk
when there's a score or two of men after us? I'm worse than an
officer. Slope for that ridge now. Hurry!"

The man put the steel to his horse, and they dashed up the slope,
crossed the ridge, and found themselves in a thick growth of timber
which covered a large area.

"Pick your way into the middle of that patch of timber," snapped out
Rathburn. "An' don't forget I'll be right close behind you. Get
going--don't gape!"

The captive's face flushed at the other's manner and the indubitable
note of contempt in his voice. But he obeyed the instructions and
pushed into the timber.

When they had proceeded some distance Rathburn called a halt. "Ever
been in this country before?" he demanded with a sneer.

"Yes." The other was more composed now. He studied his captor
curiously and seemed more at ease. Evidently he was heartened by the
fact that Rathburn had said he was not an officer and he believed
him.

"I suppose you're after what I'm carrying on me," he said with a touch
of bitterness. "I guess I'd have had as much chance as I've got now
if I'd started shootin' even after you got the drop on me!"

Rathburn laughed harshly. "You never had a chance from the start, if
you only knew it," he jeered. "Why, you upstart, you're not entitled
to any chance!"

The other man's face darkened in swift anger. "Brave talk," he said
sneeringly. "You've got me where you want me, so you can say
anything."

"I've got a pile to say," replied Rathburn shortly. "But this isn't
the time or place to say it. We want to be good an' away out of that
posse's path--an' quick."

"You might as well take what you're after an' then each of us can look
out for himself," was the hot retort.

Rathburn looked at the man quizzically. "You've got more spunk than I
thought," he mused.

He stared at the other man closely. The bandit could not have been
more than twenty-five or twenty-six. He was tall, well-built, blond.
His hair and eyes were about the color of Rathburn's. But Rathburn
particularly noted the man's face, and whatever it was he saw there
caused him to shrug and frown deeply.

"What's your name?" he demanded coldly.

"Percy," sneeringly replied the other.

"That's